


One Letter Too Late

by rottingseams



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:26:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rottingseams/pseuds/rottingseams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes we can never say what we always wanted to before it's just a little too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Letter Too Late

Loki was beginning to rot.

 

Not physically, no, never his outside form; always having been so darkly attractive and porcelain pale. No, his internal decaying could be saved by only one, the one person he least expected to save him.

 

Keeping himself caged up inside a small, abandoned apartment, Loki kept his dark curtains drawn tight day in and day out, allowing his ravaged mind to slip into the numbing trance the sound of pattering rain brought. Any sign of vivid life had drained out of his eyes, movements listless and robotic. Scars laced the lines of his slender hands; each mirror in the household having been violently smashed with bare fists, he could no longer bear to see his abhorred reflection staring hollow-eyed back at him. Tears ran in a cold, never-ending stream from eyes gazing off into space, and they would not stop. Something was missing inside of him. Or had it always been? There was no way of telling at this point. At least he knew he had always been considered nothing in the end.

 

Was he a god of lies because he always sought the truth?

 

Lying immobile, propped up against the door, Loki’s destructive fantasies took a firm hold, and he began to wonder if his spine was beginning to turn to dust, unable to bear the weight of so much failure and disappointment from others; each and every distrustful glare and sideward glance of contempt like a metaphorical piece of straw to the camel’s back. Or, in his case, that of the black sheep. They had all forgotten, had they not? And a bitter wave of fresh tears joined trickles of blood as he bit his lip in shame at the thought of his long-gone brother, swept away on tides of gleaming festivities in honor of his defeat. The unctuous Huginn and Muninn were no doubt circling and spying above, croaking hoarsely of the exiled prince.

 

The truth would turn out to be quite the opposite, as whichever higher power would have it.

 

Thor had been pining as well, having drawn away from the team of superheroes after he figured what services he could offer would not be of immediate use. Sinking below a diaphanous coma of grief for his actions, Thor chided himself mercilessly for not having acted on his own rights, his own justices. Loki deserved to be saved; he had deserved to be paid attention to and given the reassurance that there would always be someone by his side. Instead, he had let Loki mold that “someone” out of his own poisonous spirits and allowed them to harangue the very humanity from him.

After his phase of grievance had been subdued an acceptable amount, Thor was determined to go out and make things right. Or, at the very least, do all in his power to attempt correcting the whole bloody mess. Dressed in a simple red cotton shirt and “jeans”, as the Midgardians called them, Thor set out and began to research. Anything, everything, about the whereabouts of his brother, all the while knowing the search would lead to nowhere. He would have to rely on himself to find the one person he truly loved. Sitting in a chair, gazing out the window at the small London street, the god’s chin rested in his hand, and one finger drew shakily up to trace the silhouette of his brother’s oh-so-familiar gleaming golden-horned helm.

 

The rain was no match for storm of tears wrenching themselves from Thor’s eyes that evening.

 

Early next morning, Thor awoke slowly, gray-blue eyes focusing after a few seconds. Rain continued its random tattoo on the windowpanes, and he rose before stretching languidly, cursing softly in Asgardian dialect as his bones popped out of their uncomfortable positions and into something a bit more natural. Wandering about the flat for some time, he paused a moment before his eyes fell on a small desk in the corner by another window. On it lay a small age-worn parcel, the silken green string pulled away to reveal a stack of beautiful writing paper Loki had gifted him so long ago, a writing quill fashioned from an oily black raven feather lying beside it.

Hesitantly approaching the materials, Thor felt frenzied the closer he got, pulling the desk chair away and seating himself, scrabbling to get a firm hold of the delicate writing utensil in his strong hands, frantically pushing loose strands of golden hair out of his face. Dipping the tip in ink once, twice, and another time just to be sure, Thor began to write. Hunched over the desk for hours on end, the thunder god scratched out each and every thought and feeling stashed so deeply in his heart out and let it be exposed in his surprisingly legible scrawl. Instead of ink, the words were painted in blood from only the most truthful of hearts, and the pen became a portal to transfer feelings from their abstract state in the human mind and body onto earthen material.

Only once every last piece of paper had been utilized, and his hands shook, cramped in the shape of holding his quill, did Thor stop, allowing the pen now worn down to fall aside in defeat. Brushing each piece of paper together into a pile, he began to fold each one into the shape of an envelope, binding them with a coil of rich green thread. Each one was perfected ceremoniously, and never before had Thor felt so boiled down to his essence as he did now.

A week had passed since Thor had written all his letters, taking all the time to fold each one before gathering a letter and donning a brown leather jacket, grabbing an umbrella from its holder by the door. Hesitantly reaching out and gripping the handle, resolution flashed in his eyes before he stepped out into the rain, umbrella fanned out over his bowed head. One step after another, the god made his way down the paved street, faltering once, stumbling and coming to a stop. Searching for the cause of his misplaced footing, Thor found nothing. Looking to his right, there was one solemn black door, the short label cut from silver pronouncing it “221 B”. Swallowing once, Thor drew closer to it, eyes drawing down to see that there was a small mail slot near the bottom. Crouching slowly, he felt something tugging away frantically at his very core. Pushing the letter into the slot, he could have sworn it brushed against something before falling out of sight. Rising to his feet and following back in his footsteps and holing back up in his flat.

 

This ritual continued until every last one of the seventy-seven letters had been deposited in their rightful place.

 

Little did Thor know that the last one; with three key words written in bold black ink…

 

Was a day too late.

 

_I love you more than anything, Loki. Never forget that._


End file.
